


One time Tater's cat needed veterinary care (and 5 times she didn't)

by ricekrispyjoints



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Veterinarians, Alternate universe - non NHL Kent, Cat Puns, Hockey, M/M, Meet-Cute, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Puns & Word Play, Skating, Therapy, Veterinary Clinic, he still plays hockey tho ofc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 10:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17465963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricekrispyjoints/pseuds/ricekrispyjoints
Summary: Nine years ago, if someone had told Kent Parson that he would attend eight years of school and become a veterinarian instead of a professional hockey player, he would have called them delusional.But here he is at a small clinic in Providence, fresh out of vet school and ready to start the next chapter of his life.And then in walks one Russian NHL player who seems to be havinga lot of problemswith his cat...





	One time Tater's cat needed veterinary care (and 5 times she didn't)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTimetravellerCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimetravellerCat/gifts).



> This fic is for my friend thetimetravellercat, who won my 1k follower fic giveaway in like... october oops. things got a little crazy but i finally got around to it, and in true me-style, it's like 3x longer than I planned !!
> 
> the title is meant to play off of the 5+1 trope, but i didn't set it up that way, just fyi. 
> 
> thanks to my friends bigspicysenpai and kirani12 for beta-ing bc wow, i was tired when i wrote this i guess xD if there's still mistakes, well... sorry :)
> 
> please enjoy !

“Your next patient is waiting for you in room two, Doc,” one of the techs tells Kent.

“Thanks, Casey,” he says.

Getting called “doctor” is still a fresh enough thrill that Kent can’t help but smile happily whenever he hears it.

 

Nine years ago, if someone had told Kent Parson that he would attend eight years of school and become a veterinarian instead of a professional hockey player, he would have called them delusional.

But when Jack overdosed, Kent’s world had shattered.

He bailed on the draft, shaken to his core at the near loss of his best friend.

He was still trying to figure out what Jack was to him—they were lovers, but was it really love? – and then suddenly there were a thousand more important questions that Kent didn’t even know existed.

He had enrolled in community college that fall at his parents’ suggestion: it would give him something to do with his time, and let him consider his options for the future.

He tried to coach a local youth hockey team, but he had to quit.

He saw too much of himself, too much of Jack in those kids. He couldn’t stop thinking about the future these kids might have, that Jack couldn’t have, that Kent couldn’t have.  

It hurts.

So instead, he began to volunteer at a local animal shelter.

Being around the animals did wonders for Kent, and by the end of that year, he was looking up what he would need to do to attend veterinary school.

He had definitely balked at the amount of schooling – around eight years – but something told him it was the right path.

He took more intensive math and science courses his second semester of community college, and with a prayer, had applied to four-year universities.

His high school grades had been mediocre, and his test scores weren’t anything to write home about. All he had was a year of community college and one hell of a personal essay.

Kent had almost been too distracted by midterms to fret about acceptance letters, so when his mother greeted him with a plain white envelope one evening when he came down to dinner, his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

“Go on, open it,” she urged.

His parents looked at him with expectant faces, but he didn’t really want to open it in front of them.

It was the first letter to arrive, and from his reach school no less. It was okay if he got rejected. He still had eight other chances to get in somewhere.

“Do you mind if I…?” he asked, gesturing to the stairs.

His mom nodded encouragingly, and he scurried back up to his room, took a deep breath... and opened it.

_Dear Mr. Kent Parson,_

_On behalf of the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the class of 2018!_

Kent stopped reading and let the paper fall from his hands.

And there, in the middle of his room, he threw his head back and _screamed_.

It was a primal, guttural cry, and when his lungs ran out of air, he had gasped in a new breath and began crying.

He hadn’t cried since Jack told him he couldn’t see him anymore, couldn’t talk to him or be around him.

This was the sign he needed that he hadn’t thrown everything away.

 

Kent’s undergraduate experience was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, but he wasn’t about to quit.

After a rough sophomore year and a respectable junior year, Kent found himself on the Dean’s list for senior year.

He didn’t make it into the early acceptance program with Tufts, but he applied to their vet school anyway as a senior, and through another miracle, he got in.

Another four years went by in a blur, and in the spring of 2018, he was _officially_ Dr Kent Parson, DVM.

He hoped one day he could open his own vet clinic, but right after graduation, his goal was just getting employed—his student loans were horrifying.

He applied for job after job in Massachusetts, but he didn’t have any luck in Boston. So, he expanded his search into the suburbs, and then eventually into Connecticut and Rhode Island.

Still nothing.

Fearing that he had just wasted eight years of his life – and then six more months job-searching – he finally landed a position in an incredibly understaffed animal hospital in Providence, Rhode Island.

It wasn’t exactly his dream clinic, but he wasn’t about to be picky about it.

He would stick it out at least two years, get some experience under his belt, and then start looking for a new job, if need be.

But he’s been at Friends Furrever Animal Hospital for three months now, and it’s going well. Kent is hopeful.

The head vet, Dr Sandoval, likes to act like a hardass, but she’s secretly the biggest mush Kent’s ever seen.

The techs are all friendly and excellent at their jobs, and the idiocy of the owners has been tolerable.

(Except that one guy who brought in a dog’s stool sample in a leftover food container, saying that his dog clearly had worms.

He refused to accept Kent’s explanation that the “worms” were actually Ramen noodles, and then started yelling that he was going to report Kent for animal abuse.

Worms guy isn’t allowed at their clinic anymore.)

 

Now, as Kent looks over the chart for a five-year-old cat named Pancake, who is here for her yearly check-up, he hums quietly to himself.

Pancake usually sees Dr Sandoval, but there was a scheduling conflict apparently, and so Pancake fell to Kent today. Her owner has been bringing her here for three years – first to spay her after she was adopted, and then a good, regular history of check-ups and all her vaccines.

This should be an easy visit, Kent thinks pleasantly.

He opens the door and looks up from the chart.

And absolutely _gawks_.

His first thought is, _Oh no, he’s hot_.

His second thought is, _Oh no, that’s Alexei Mashkov._

His third thought is that he should probably stop fucking gaping at this man who is looking at him with an increasingly concerned expression on that gorgeous face.

“H-Hi,” he says, his voice cracking like he’s thirteen again. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi, I’m Dr Parson.”

Kent extends his hand, and Mashkov shakes it enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you, Doctor,” Mashkov says, though he still looks a bit worried for Kent. “Thank you for seeing my little girl today. Schedule is very busy these days.”

“With playoffs coming up, I can only imagine,” Kent blurts.

“Ah, so you _do_ recognize me. I am asking myself why you look so shocked when you see me. This explains it,” Mashkov chuckles. It’s teasing, but not malicious at all.

Kent curses his pale skin as he feels his face turn red.

“Sorry, I—I’m a big hockey fan,” Kent says, almost laughing at himself. It’s true that he’s only a fan these days, his recreational league notwithstanding, but considering how close he had been to going pro, it seems like an understatement, even a decade later.

“You didn’t see my name on chart?” he asks, teasing again.

“Well ‘Pancake Mashkov’ doesn’t really ring any bells, so I did not assume that there was any relation, to an NHL star, no,” Kent says, recovering some of his senses.

“You are Falconer’s fan, then?”

“I’m partial to the Aces, personally,” Kent says with as much nonchalance as he can manage.

He had only been in Providence for a few months, and seeing Jack play hurt Kent in the way an old wound aches when it’s too cold or damp.

He had followed the Bruins while he was in college, but he couldn’t really get into supporting what had been his childhood favorite team’s arch rival.

There was too much tied to the Habs in Kent’s mind though, so he picked an expansion team on the other side of the country and dove in.

“Aces? You are from Vegas or you just like bad teams?” Mashkov grins.

“Oi, Troy has had a great season this year,” Kent defends.

“It was a good move they traded Carl last season, at least,” Mashkov concedes.

“Now that, I can agree on,” Kent grins. “Anyway, shall we see to the princess?”

Normally, Kent is immensely more interested in the animals he treats than their owners, so he’s a bit surprised at himself that he didn’t immediately greet her after getting over his shock at seeing _the_ Alexei Mashkov in his exam room.

“Of course,” Mashkov says, and unzips Pancake’s carrier.

Pancake is the picture of health—and of cuteness.

She’s a mostly white cat with large, round patches of orange fur, which is probably how she got her name.

She’s due for a booster vaccine, so Kent administers that, too, and all too soon, the visit is over.

“Well, Pancake, I think your dad has taken very good care of you. Shouldn’t need to see you for another year, unless something comes up,” Kent says. It’s habit to talk to the pet instead of the owner, and Kent only feels a little shame at doing it in front of Mashkov.

“Say thank you, Pancake,” Mashkov says, and then pitching his voice in a ridiculous falsetto, “Thank you very meowch, Doctor Parson!”

Kent bursts out into laughter.

It’s not even close to an original joke, but something about a six-foot-something Russian man saying it absolutely tickles Kent. 

Mashkov tucks Pancake back into her carrier, though she complains a little, and offers a handshake to Kent.

“Nice to meet you, and we will see you next time,” Mashkov says with a big grin. “Say bye, Pancake!”

“Bye, Pancake,” Kent says, waving to her.

He follows Mashkov and Pancake out of the exam room, tucking the chart under his arm and heading back to the tech station to prepare for his next patient.

Mashkov waves one more time, looking over his shoulder as he walks out the door.

Kent nods and offers a brief wave again, too.

 

A few weeks pass busily at the clinic. Dr Sandoval had organized a big adoption event last weekend with a local shelter, and they had a huge influx of new patients.

Dr Sandoval was even considering hiring a third vet to help cover the new appointments.

Kent had worked the clinic while Dr Sandoval advocated at the adoption event, so he’s excited to see all the new pets for the first time.

His first such patient is scheduled next: a cat named Pierogi. 

This time, at least, Kent has the foresight to check the last name before he enters the exam room.

“Good morning, Mister Mashkov,” Kent says in greeting. “Couldn’t resist a sibling for Pancake, eh?”

“When you meet Pierogi, you will understand,” Mashkov says. “And please, just call me Alexei. Or Tater, since you like hockey.”

“Alright, Tater. I’d tell you to call me my hockey nickname, but I’m afraid I’m still a little too proud of the doctorate to let you just call me Parse,” Kent jokes.

“Doctor Parse, then,” Mashkov – Tater, says, grinning. “You play hockey?”

“Just rec league, these days,” he says a little wistfully. “I used to be pretty good, though.”

He leaves it at that, hoping that Tater doesn’t press it.

“So,” Tater says, not letting the awkwardness linger, “at adoption event, shelter tells me that Pierogi here is overweight. I talked to Dr Sandoval and she said I should come in to get her weighed and talk about diet.”

Kent gives Tater a breakdown on the best foods to feed Pierogi, as well as how to get her active and on the right track.

“When you’re on roadies, you have a…Someone to check on your cats, I assume?”

“Little B usually does, these days. Maybe not if we make Playoffs, but I have a pet-sitter, too.”

“Okay, so um, Little B can help exercise her, too,” Kent says, unsure what to make of someone called Little B. A girlfriend? A neighborhood kid? It could be anyone, with hockey players. “When B checks in on them, they should engage her in some play to get her moving. It’s good that she’s with Pancake, because they might keep each other more active, too.”

“I’m sure B will love this,” Tater laughs. “He’s wanting a cat too, but his boyfriend wants dog. They argue about this for months now.”

Kent feels guilty, but he’s relieved to find out that this ‘Little B’ isn’t Tater’s significant other.

He breathes out a sigh that he tries to pass as a chuckle. “Well, with the right animals, cats and dogs can get along really well. They could get one of each.”

“This is what I am saying! Is not like they can’t afford two pets: Zimmboni has enough money for cat and dog.”

Kent’s heart stops for a moment, at the mention of Jack.

He _knew_ , of course, that Tater plays for the same team. He even gets the impression that they’re friends, from the media, at least.

But hearing him mentioned so casually – in such a domestic context – stings a little.

It’s been years, but Kent regrets how things ended with Jack.

He’s written so many letters—that he’s never sent, of course – at the suggestion of his therapist, but every time he thinks the wound is closed, the edges of the scar tug just a little too hard to remind him.

He lets out a slow exhale and tells himself to focus on his job.

He brings the conversation back to Pierogi, and makes sure that Tater has all he needs to help the rather rotund but affectionate tortoise shell cat get her weight down.

“Any other questions?” he asks as he flips the chart closed.

“No, I think we are all set,” Tater says. He packs Pierogi up in her carrier and Kent opens the door for him.

“See you next time, Tater,” he says, and smiles at Pierogi because he knows his smile will be more genuine if he makes it at the cat.

Kent has another patient see right after, but he tells the tech he has to go to the bathroom first.

He locks himself in the stall, focusing on his breathing.

He pulls out the notes app on his phone, and jots down how he’s feeling. He does a quick grounding activity, and tells himself that he is tabling these emotions for after work today.

He acknowledges, he breathes in, he breathes out. He remains in the moment.

It’s only taken him a decade to get here, but he likes to think that he handles it like a champ.

 

The next couple of days, Kent feels a little subdued.

He can’t fault Jack for moving forward with his life. He _knows_ Jack turned his career around. He _knows_ Jack is happily dating his college sweetheart, had seen the kiss after the Falcs won the cup.

But seeing Jack doing so well makes that horrible little doubt creep back into Kent’s mind: that Kent was always the problem, and that getting away from him was what Jack needed, because Kent was so poisonous.

He’s not the same cocksure teenager he was in 2009, and he has long since moved on from his romantic feelings for Jack, murky as they may have been.

But it still feels like Kent has to do some kind of personal penance for how he acted back then. He actively, if unknowingly, contributed to the destruction of his best friend’s life.

His therapist had asked him once what it would take for Kent to forgive himself, and Kent had said that he needed Jack to be happy. Knowing that Jack was happy, despite the damage Kent had done.

But when that moment had come – when Jack, alternate captain in his first year and Stanley Cup champion, came out publicly with his boyfriend, looked absolutely and undeniably happy – Kent wasn’t ready to forgive himself.

Maybe he never will be, he thinks bitterly, stabbing at a cherry tomato in his salad during his lunch break.

The tomato rolls instead of yielding to the plastic fork Kent is using.

He sighs.

He tells himself what he always tells himself when he sees Jack doing well: _be happy for him, be proud of him. You haven’t been a part of his life for years. He has moved on, and you can, too._

 

Luckily for Kent, his monthly therapy appointment is early the next week, so he talks it through with Jenna.

She reassures him that he’s making progress, and is proud of him for how well he handled his panic at the clinic.

Kent used to think that being congratulated for “little things” like that was patronizing, but after a decade of therapy, he really appreciates it: a reminder to be kind to himself, and to not de-value things that might be easy for others but are difficult for him.

All things considered, Kent thinks he’s made amazing progress on his journey towards forgiving himself.

He might not be ready to completely forgive himself yet, but he’s becoming stronger and a better person, little by little, and he thinks that’s good enough.

He always has the full day off on therapy days, because it used to drain him a lot more than it does now, and it’s just easier to keep up his therapy-day routine even now: wake up early, work out, play with Kit, therapy, lunch, nap, journal, play with Kit, cook dinner, reach out to a human being.

Usually, it’s his friend Mattie from vet school, but sometimes he’ll call his mother, or Casey the vet-tech, who is slowly becoming a pretty good friend.

The socialization is a key element that Kent didn’t realize he needed sometimes, but he can close himself off pretty quickly if he doesn’t remind himself to seek human contact on occasion.

The next day, Kent is feeling refreshed and back to his usual self: he would never say he’s _perky_ , but he has a healthy energy about him.

 

Three and a half weeks later, Kent frowns when he sees who his next patient is.

It’s Pancake.

She was the picture of health not that long ago, so he hopes nothing crazy is going on.

Maybe she just ate something weird, or got too constipated.

Cats are always getting constipated, Kent sighs.

He enters the exam room to find Tater cuddling her to his chest, murmuring softly to her in what Kent assumes must be Russian.

“Hi,” he says quietly, like he might disturb them if he speaks too loudly.

Tater says something to him in Russian, and Kent looks back blankly.

Tater shakes his head quickly, and tries again, this time in English. “Hello again, Doctor Parse,” he says with a tired smile. “Got home very late last night. English brain is not working yet.”

“It’s alright,” Kent says, understanding. He’s a native speaker and sometimes he can’t English correctly. He’s not going to judge. “So what brings Princess Pancake in again so soon?”

Tater laughs. “If she is princess, this makes me her subject?”

“You could be the king, you know. Unless you let your cat walk all over you, in which case, yeah, probably the subject,” Kent teases.

If Tater is joking, then Pancake can’t be too sick, at least, so he waits for Tater to share why he’s here.

“Ok, so _Princess_ Pancake, she is not eating for three days now. I’m worry for her. She is not playing, just sleeps and cries,” Tater says. “I try salmon, eggs, banana… she not wanting anything.”

 _Probably constipated_ , Kent sighs internally. He’ll do his due diligence, but he’d bet money that’s all this is.

“Has she been outside at all?” Kent asks. Tater said she’s an indoor cat, but sometimes the crafty ones escape and get into mischief.

“No, not at all.”

“Do you have houseplants? Or anything weird that she might have tried to eat?”

“I have houseplant—just one, and is safe for cats, I’m check. But I don’t see bite marks or signs that she has been eating.”

“And has she been pooping regularly?” Kent asks.

Tater makes a non-committal noise. “With Pierogi, is hard to tell who is pooping. But Pierogi always eats, and Pancake no. So, I bring Pancake.”

Kent finishes his physical exam, despite Pancake’s squirming and constantly trying to escape Kent’s prodding into Tater’s arms.

“Best guess is that she ate something weird—a piece of string, a Kleenex—that you didn’t see, and she’s just a little constipated. It sounds weird, but I need to you to watch her to see if she’s pooping. If she goes in the litter box, check to make sure that she actually passed something.

“In the meantime, keep her active, make sure she has plenty of water accessible, and keep offering her food. I can give you a mild laxative for her, too. If she’s still not eating at all by Thursday, come back and we’ll do some more rigorous testing.”

Kent realizes he just went into serious doctor mode, but Tater is staring quite intently at him, wide eyes and mouth slightly open, and he’s not sure why.

“Any questions?” He tries.

“No, no, all yes. Very understand. Good,” Tater says. His face says he knows what he just said made very little sense, but he doesn’t seem like he’s going to try again.

Kent nods slowly. “Alright then. I’ll just be a moment to get that prescription, then.”

He ducks out of the exam room, telling the desk to prepare the script, and he foolishly pulls his phone out to check that there’s nothing weird on his face or something.

He doesn’t really know what caused Tater to short-circuit like that, but maybe Kent’s lightly medical speech was just too much English for his tired brain.

When the medicine is ready, Kent goes back to the exam room. He did knock, but Tater still jumps when he sees him.

Kent rattles the pill bottle. “We’ll give her the first dose now. I’m giving you a week’s supply, but if she goes back to regular pooping and eating, you can stop giving them to her before then.”

Tater nods, regaining his composure. “So instead of Pancake popping pills, she needs pooping pills,” he says, a ridiculous grin spreading slowly across his face.

Kent groans. “That … is a terrible joke. It’s barely even a joke.”

“Play on words is very difficult in not native language,” Tater complains. “I get extra credit because I play on high difficulty level.”

That makes Kent honestly laugh. “Alright, I’ll give you a pass on that one. I expect better next time, though.”

Something in Tater’s expression shifts, but Kent doesn’t know what it is.

“And hopefully Pancake is all better soon, so you’ll have plenty of time to come up with something better,” Kent adds, shifting a little under Tater’s gaze.

“Mmhmm, I’m thinking about it already. Will really _blow_ you away,” Tater says.

Kent isn’t sure what the emphasis on the word “blow” was meant to mean.

He’s not going to think about it.

Definitely not going to think of Tater, beautiful, broad, tall, professional hockey player Tater, making a thinly veiled sex joke at him.

He bites his lip to avoid bursting into laughter. He can at least pretend to have some professionalism, dammit.

 

Sure enough, Pancake was apparently just constipated.

Tater called to give Kent an update – “I’m not want you worry about Princess Pancake,” he had said.

After the laxative and an exciting game of chase the laser, Tater had woken up to find cat poop positively _everywhere_ , and Pancake happily eating from her bowl like nothing was wrong.

Kent laughs, but he is truly sympathetic.

“I’m calling carpet cleaner after this,” Tater groans.

“Think of it this way,” Kent says, still half-laughing, “at least she’s feeling better.”

“Yes, this is of course very good. I’m just wish she could be feeling better in _litter box_.”

Kent can’t stop the absolute guffaw that erupts out of his throat.

The receptionist looks at him like she is very much doubting that his phone call is professional.

Kent clears his throat and wraps up his phone call with as much decorum as he can manage.

He’s in a good mood for the rest of the day.

 

Two weeks later, Kent sees Mashkov on his schedule again. This time, it’s Pierogi.

He’s only had her for what, a month? And other than being overweight, she was in very good health.

Kent hopes she’s not holding in a bout of explosive diarrhea like her sister was.

In the exam room, Tater is happily cooing in Russian to Pierogi, who is exploring the corner under the desk.

“Tater and Pierogi, to what do I owe this honor?” Kent teases when he walks in.

He shakes Tater’s hand and pulls out the rolling stool to give Pierogi more space to poke around under the desk.

“She is not liking this active lifestyle, I think,” Tater sighs. “Is very hard to get her to play. I’m trying every toy I can find. I’m trying things that aren’t even toys – but always safe for her, I know. She is maybe _fatter_ than when I adopt her. I’m feel like bad cat dad.”

Kent smiles sympathetically. “You’re not a bad cat dad. Some cats are harder to figure out. She’s probably still settling into your home, and getting to know Pancake, too. I think that if you keep trying things out, she’ll warm up to something eventually.”

“I’m wondering if I buy her leash, take her on walks?” Tater asks. “I know is silly, maybe she will hate this too.”

“If you’re interested in trying that, I don’t see a problem. I’d recommend getting her used to the harness alone, first. Just put it on for a little bit around the house at first. Take it off if she looks uncomfortable. Try again another day, maybe a little longer,” Kent explains.

“I’m hoping she likes this,” Tater says. “You can weigh her and say if she is not gaining too much weight?”

“Of course,” Kent agrees, and starts making kissy noises at Pierogi to get her to come out from under the desk.

It’s always easier to pick up a cat when they’re not cornered.

Tater seems surprised that Pierogi comes almost immediately to Kent, sniffing delicately at his pant leg.

He holds out his hand a moment, and then pets her a few times, figuring out almost immediately where her favorite spot to be pet is.

Kent can feel Tater watching him, but he focuses on getting Pierogi to like him enough to pick her up and put her on the scale.

It doesn’t take much time at all, really, and Pierogi allows herself to be placed on the scale.

Kent read the scale in pounds, first, and then switches it to kilograms.

Kent has a hard time with kilograms, so he can only imagine that a Russian would have a hard time understanding how much a pound or ounces were.

“Four point eight kilos,” Kent says. “That’s actually a little less than she weighed last time she was here,” he adds happily, looking at here chart history.

“My next question was going to be about her diet, but it looks like she’s on the right track.”

“Ah, this is very good!” Tater says, a huge grin plastered on his face. “Papa is proud of you, Pierogi.”

“She just needs more time to slim down,” Kent says reassuringly. “Don’t be too impatient. And good luck with taking her for walks.”

“I take pictures, maybe video, send to you.”

Kent snorts a little laugh. “I don’t know if my email inbox has enough space to take video attachments.”

 “I post to Instagram, link you there, then,” Tater says.

“As if I don’t already follow your Instagram,” Kent laughs, and then instantly feels weird for having said. Is that weird, to follow your patient’s Instagram?

Sure, his patients’ owner is a professional athlete, but it still sounds lowkey stalkerish.

“But are you follow Pancake and Pierogi’s account too?” Tater presses, apparently not bothered by this.

“Of course,” Kent says. “Though Kit is very disappointed you didn’t follow her back.”

“Kit? Who is Kit?”

“My cat, of course,” Kent grins. “I don’t have a personal Instagram. Just one for Kit. Her full name is Kit Purrson.”

Tater pulls out his phone and frantically opens the Instagram app. “What is account name?”

“At KitPurrson90. With Two Rs.”

“90 because you are born this year, then?” Tater asks. “You are little baby.”

“Like you’re so much older than me,” Kent scoffs lightly. “Besides, it was my hockey number. _Is_ my hockey number.”

“I am always forgetting you play hockey,” Tater admits. “So small for hockey player.”

“We aren’t all hulking D-men,” Kent grumbles. “I bet I could skate circles around you.”

“Yes, you must be quick for survive hockey. But I’m not sure you skate circles. After I win Cup this year, I invite you to rink, we see how good you really are.”

He has to be teasing. They’re just kidding around, chirping. It’s not a real invitation.

So, Kent accepts.

“Yeah, you’re on, old man.”

 

 

Four days later, Kent is going over paperwork and picking around the raw onions in his salad. He really should stop buying salads with onions in them; he is never going to eat them.

Someone knocks at the door, and Casey pokes her head in.

“Hey, so um, Mr Mashkov is here with Pierogi again,” she says.

“He’s not on my schedule,” Kent says, confused. “Everything okay?”

“He says he needs help putting a harness on Pierogi, and was kind of insistent that it was you to help him?”

Kent stares.

“Um, okay…?” he says, closing his salad up and standing.

Theoretically, this should take thirty seconds.

But it’s a cat in a harness, so one never knows.

And if Tater was here, it meant that he had not been successful at home.

Kent sighs.

Casey tells him that exam room four is open for their wrangling needs, and Kent goes to the lobby to bring Tater and Pierogi back.

“Back so soon?” Kent smiles.

“She is squirmy thing,” Tater says, rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous kind of gesture.

“Come on back,” Kent says, nodding his head towards the exam rooms. “This shouldn’t take long with two people, at least.”

Tater nearly walks on Kent’s heals he follows him so closely back to the exam room, Pierogi in her carrier chirping softly in his left hand.

Tater unpacks Pierogi, placing her on the exam table, and holds up the little blue harness. “I’m buy in Falconer’s blue, you see?”

“You could put her in a whole Falc’s jersey, but she’s still black and gold like a good little Aces fan,” he chirps right back.

“No! She cheers for her Papa, now.”

“Can’t change who we are,” Kent says with mock-seriousness.

Tater pouts a little, and Pierogi chirps as though she’s showing her support.

“Alright, let’s see about getting you into this thing, yeah?” Kent says. “Show me how you tried to do it at home, so I can see what we need to do. It shouldn’t take more than thirty seconds.”

Tater hesitates, like he’s trying to think something through.

He nods his head once, and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

Kent braces for Pierogi to do something crazy, because that’s the only reason he can think that Tater brought her to the vet to put a harness on.

Tater holds the harness in front of her, letting her see and sniff it as she pleases.

She seems largely disinterested.

He lays it down in front of her, lined up with where her paws should go.

Gently, he picks up one paw and places it in the middle of the leg loop. He does the same on the other side.

He pulls the harness up, clasps it, and tightens it just a bit so it’s snug.

Pierogi doesn’t seem even the slightest bit bothered by the whole process. She starts licking herself.

Kent coughs. “Was… was that not how it went at home?”

“Is exactly how it went at home,” Tater says, though he’s shrinking away from Kent and fidgeting.

There’s a heavy silence, and then they both start to speak at the same time.

“So why—” Kent starts.

“I’m wanting—” Tater tries.

They break off.

“Go ahead,” Kent says, because Tater is probably about to answer his question anyway.

“I wanted to see you,” Tater says, and his cheeks are the perfect shade of pink.

“What?”

“This time, last time… time before. I even adopt Pierogi because I am thinking you will be at event. I’m wanting second cat anyway, and two cats means more times at vet.”

“I’m…” Kent is too stunned to finish his sentence.

“I think we get along good, we understand each other. Good humor. Both liking hockey and cats. I even forgive for not being Falcs fan,” Tater adds, teasing. “I wanted to see you, ask you out.”

Kent’s breathing catches. _Alexei Mashkov is asking me out_.

“I… uh…” His brain is screaming _say yes!_ But his mouth isn’t working.

“You don’t want this,” Tater says, the disappointment clear in his voice.

“No! I mean yes! I mean… fuck, I uh, I do. Um, I would like to. To go out with you.”

“Is good thing Dr Parse is vet and not English professor,” Tater chirps.

“Dude, you’re really gonna trash talk me right after you ask me out?”

“That doesn’t sound like a real complaint.”

“No, no. Just a bold move,” Kent laughs. “I can um, give you my number. So you don’t have to keep running up your vet bills to see me.”

“I’m famous hockey player; I can pay.”

Kent gives him a _look_.

“But yes, I’m wanting your number.”

 

 Simply put, Kent can’t quite believe what’s happening. About a week and a half ago, a gorgeous Russian man revealed that he had manufactured a reason to bring his pet into the clinic as an excuse to see Kent.

That gorgeous Russian man, who just _happens_ to be an NHL player and the teammate of Kent’s once best friend, had then proceeded to ask Kent on a _date_.

And now, with a hockey gear bag hoisted over a shoulder, Kent is standing in the parking lot in front of the Falconer’s practice rink.

He is insanely grateful that he did not wear his old Q jersey, because standing here now, he’s certain he would feel like an absolute fool in it. Instead, he’s wearing his red practice jersey from the rec league. His name and number stamped in silver on his back are starting to fade, but it’s comfortable, and Kent is pretty sure he’s going to be a little anxious for at least the beginning of this outing.

He can barely call it a date, even in his head, he thinks a little sadly.

Tater said he’d meet him at the entrance so that he could get past security, and Kent has already spent ten minutes questioning every life decision he’s ever made that’s led him here.

Kent tells himself that he _doesn’t_ regret abandoning his probably very illustrious professional hockey career, but it’s hard not to think of the what-ifs as he walks towards the building.

What if he had really gone first in the draft? What if he got drafted somewhere like the Aces, and was a rival on the ice with Mashkov? What if they never knew each other beyond opponents, and Kent never got to meet Pancake?

When Kent’s thoughts start spiraling down a bizarre domino-effect path where his decision to participate in the draft back in 2009 actually would have triggered some horrible catastrophe, he closes his eyes and shakes his head gently. 

“I hear these thoughts, and they are not helpful,” he whispers to himself. “I do not want to think about them right now, so I will think about them later if I want.”

His thoughts don’t always listen to him, but he likes to think that the affirmation reduces the volume of the weird thoughts at the very least, so he keeps doing it.

Tater is standing at the check in desk, chatting with the receptionist.

When he sees Kent, his face lights up and a big, goofy grin spreads wider than should be possible.

“Doctor Parse!” he says.

“Hey, Tater,” Kent says, and he’s never felt shier than he does in this moment.

He wonders what the receptionist knows.

He nods and gives a small wave at her, trying to remember at least basic politeness.

“You have all you need, yes?” Tater says. “I’m not forget you promise skate circles around me.”

The receptionist lets out a laugh that she belatedly attempts to cover up with a cough.

“I told you, my size makes me speedy. You’re not gonna know what hit you,” Kent says, regaining some confidence at the familiar banter.

“Yes, yes, we will see,” Tater says, raising an eyebrow. “Come, I give tour first, then we warm up and when you say good, we try race or one v one.”

“Sounds great,” Kent says.

“We are only ones here,” Alexei says. “Is off day, which means only light practice in morning.”

“I’m not gonna go easy on you just because you’re tired from practice,” Kent says casually.

“I am not needing you go easy,” Tater says.

“Yes, yes, we will see,” Kent teases, echoing Tater’s earlier skeptical remark.

The facility is more or less deserted save for the occasional staff member, but Kent is glad that none of Tater’s teammates are there.

They keep an easy conversation going, Kent trying to discretely ask the things he’s wondered most about his almost-life, as well as things about Tater’s own experiences moving here from Russia.

Finally, Tater decides that he’s shown Kent everything he wants to. “So, you are ready for skate?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Kent says.

“Whoa whoa, I no put out on first date,” Tater tries to deadpan. He bursts into giggles not a full second afterwards though, and Kent can’t help but laugh too.

“That was _terrible_ ,” Kent informs him.

“This is good humor! Peak comedy. Is what you should to expect from man who call himself Potato, no?”

Kent shakes his head with a laugh. “I suppose you’re right.”

They lace up, and Kent gets his stick out for when they’re ready. He knows his puck handling skills aren’t nearly as amazing as they were a decade ago, but he definitely cleans up in his rec league, and does enough individual practice that he thinks maybe he won’t be too embarrassing.

Straight skating, though, Kent has never lost confidence in.

They warm up with a few lazy laps, and then it becomes overwhelmingly obvious that they’re both hideously competitive and they start to pick up speed.

At first, it’s just a little, a gradual increase as they rib each other.

They keep up their banter until they’re in a nearly full out sprint, and they can’t talk because they need the air.

They’re neck and neck, which Kent chalks up to the fact that Tater has a good six inches on him, maybe more.

Kent pushes himself just a little more, though, speeding up just enough to completely pass Tater, and Tater peels off in defeat.

Pumping his fist in the air, Kent lets out a triumphant whoop.

When they’ve regained their breath – it takes Kent longer than he’d like, if he’s honest, but he won, so he’s trying not to think about it – they meet back up on center ice.

“Amazing,” Tater tells him. “You tell me how fast, but I’m not realize that you really, really mean _fast_.”

Kent grins. “I don’t lie about hockey.”

“You are incredible,” Tater says. “I… I’m want to kiss you, such that you’re amazing.”

“Hey, winner should get a prize, right?” Kent teases. “I happily accept.”

And there on center ice at the Providence Falconers’ rink, Kent has his first kiss in five years.

It’s soft, sweet, and a little sweaty, but it feels absolutely perfect.

When they pull apart, Kent dives back in for one last quick kiss, because he’s a little worried he won’t get another chance if he doesn’t, despite how well things seem to be going with Tater.

“Wanna go one v one?” Kent says in a low voice.

“I crush you like grape,” Tater says in a rumble, and Kent goes from a little bit afraid to just a _little_ bit aroused.

The near giggle that follows the threat removes any and all menace from it, though, and Kent skates away backwards. “Bring it on Potato man.”

They turn to grab their sticks and a puck when Kent sees that someone is watching them.

They’re in the shadows, so it’s hard to see, but something about the silhouette makes Kent nervous.

The figure steps forward into the light, and Kent feels the blood drain from his face.

It’s Jack.

Tater notices Jack, and not Kent’s panic, and that’s the only thing that keeps Kent grounded.

It’s been a long time, and he knows that Jack is doing alright. He’s a Stanley Cup champion, he’s in a happy, long-term relationship with some little blond guy from college, and he probably feels rather indifferent to Kent, these days, if he’s thought about him at all.

“Zimbonni!” Tater says, waving. “What you are doing here? Go home, spend time with Little B.”

“Hey, Tater,” Jack says. “I was just chatting with George. I was on my way out when I heard people on the ice, so I came to see who was here. Sorry if I’m… interrupting.”

“No, no, is fine!” Tater says, then turns to Kent, who is desperately hoping he has recovered from the shock of seeing Jack to not seem like a complete idiot. “Doc, you want meet teammate? He _should_ to be at home, but instead he is here.”

Kent takes a deep breath, lets it out in a quick sigh, and skates over to the boards.

“Hey, Zimms,” he says, holding out a hand. “It’s been a while.”

Jack looks pleasantly surprised to see Kent, which relieves a lot of Kent’s anxiety in that small smile alone.

“How’d you end up here, Kenny?” Jack says. There’s no hate or malice in his voice.

Kent’s heart is singing.

“Wait, wait, how are you already know Doctor Parse?” Tater asks. 

Jack raises his eyebrows in surprise. “ _Doctor_?” he asks with a chuckle. “With your grades?”

“I’m not the same flunky I was in the Q, Zimms.”

“You were in Q?!” Tater cries.

Jack and Kent laugh, and it’s more cathartic than Kent could have predicted.

“Yeah, we used to be pretty close,” Jack says with a small shrug. It’s both so much more complicated than that and exactly that simple all at once. “Before I OD’d, everyone thought we’d go one-two in the draft that year.”

Kent is a little shocked at how casually Jack brings up his OD, but clearly, Kent isn’t the only one who’s been to therapy and grown and moved on from everything that happened back then.

“You kind of dropped off the planet though, Kenny,” Jack continues. “How’d you end up a doctor?”

“Oh, you know: had a huge existential crisis, went to community college, volunteered at an animal shelter, got into vet school. Got a job at a clinic here in Providence. Then _this_ guy,” Kent says, jerking a thumb towards Tater, “comes in with his cat. Well, cat _s_ , plural, now. Accidentally challenged me to a skate off.”

“I’m really happy for you, man,” Jack says sincerely. “So, Tater, I assume you lost?”

Tater pouts so dramatically at Jack’s chirp that Kent has to laugh at it.

“Why everyone is thinking I lose?”

“Because you did,” Kent chirps.

“Zimbonni is not knowing this!”

“He assumed it, though. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Zimms, though… I’m not sure he’ll keep your secret.”

“Oh definitely not,” Jack chuckles as he pulls out his ringing cellphone. “One sec,” he says to Tater and Kent. “Hey bud.”

A pause. “Yeah, I’ll be headed home soon. Ran into an old friend.” Another pause. “I’ll see you soon. Love you, Bits.”

Kent blushes at hearing Jack sound so _soft_. The Jack he knew would’ve run from the room before he let anyone hear him sound so affectionate about _anything_.

“I gotta get going,” Jack tells the two of them. “But Kenny, it was good to see you. Don’t be a stranger, eh?”

“Yeah, alright,” Kent says.

“Have Tater give you my number, if you like. See you around,” Jack says with a little wave.

Kent is feeling a little overwhelmed, but somehow in a very good way.

He’s on a date—a weirdly competitive one, but a date all the same – and he got a kiss. He ran across his adolescent best friend slash ex-lover and they’re apparently okay. Jack wants to keep in touch.

This day couldn’t possibly get any better.

“One v one now?” Tater asks, breaking Kent out of his reverie. “I’m need to reclaim pride. You not tell me you were in Q, but now I’m know I don’t hold back.”

“You’re on, Tater.”

Tater gives Kent a quick kiss on the cheek, tosses a puck onto the ice, and they skate to center ice to face off.

 _I was wrong_ , Kent thinks. _This day just got better._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thetimetravellercat, i hope it's everything you wanted :')
> 
> thanks to everyone for reading, kudos and comments help me power thru my 150k writing goal for the year ! 
> 
>  
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> [ horrible vet story source here ](https://notalwaysright.com/the-worst-noodle-cup-flavor-ever/129794/)
> 
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> 
>  
> 
> come follow me on tumblr as ricekrispyjoints, if you're into that kind of thing


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